A Message from Mercury
by Qoc762
Summary: Castle and Beckett look into a death from different ends - geographically. Follws on 'Ars longa, vita brevis', followed by 'Serpents in Paradise'.


Captain Kate Beckett put the telephone receiver down with a puzzled frown.

"What's up?" asked Detective Esposito, who had been briefing her on one of the current cases along with his partner.

"That was the Chief of Department's secretary," Beckett answered. "The Chief 'asks' me to come to his office at PP One immediately."

"That doesn't sound good," Detective Ryan commented, wincing a little. "He usually leaves it to the Chief of Detectives to chew the captains out, right?"

"I've been spared that particular experience so far, so I don't really know. Fact is, I've never been called by the Department Chief at all. Nor his assistant."

"Then you must have pissed someone off royally," Esposito said. "Any ideas?"

"I'm totally in the dark," Beckett admitted and put on her coat.

"Maybe Castle has stepped on some important toes," Ryan offered.

"He's been so busy writing these days, I can't see how he'd have the time or the opportunity to do anything of that sort," Beckett shooed the two men out of her office. "And who says it's always bad news when the powers that be want to see you?"

"Yeah, right," Ryan nodded. "He probably just wants to tell you how impressed he is with your detectives' work."

"Or he's decided that the station house is to be renovated and wants to discuss the color scheme."

"Tell him that blues are very trendy at the moment."

"Though we'd go with something a little more sunny for the men's room."

They waved as the elevator doors closed in front of their captain.

"How deep do you think is the shit Beckett's in?" Ryan asked quietly.

"Being called to the Chief of Department's office? At least knee-deep."

Beckett was a little annoyed to hear on her arrival that the Chief was in a meeting. The assistant assured her however that it would only be a matter of minutes and that the visitors' chairs were comfortable. Regretting not to have brought some files to read through, Beckett took out her notebook and started a grocery list, trying to make it look like a work-related task. Fortunately, the Chief was true to his assistant's word, who, after a short buzz of the intercom, told Beckett to walk right in. She did so, feeling a little apprehensive, but was completely unprepared for what was waiting for her.

The woman sitting at the small conference table looked vaguely familiar. The man walking towards her with a well-calibrated smile on his face was the Chief, whom she'd met before. The other man just getting up from his chair, looking surprised, was her husband.

"Captain Beckett, thank you for coming at such a short notice," the Chief said. "Please meet Congresswoman Millard. She's flown in from Albany on a personal matter."

The two women shook hands and exchanged polite greetings.

"Well, further introductions are not necessary, I think," the Chief chuckled. Beckett and Castle forced smiles and nodded.

"Let's get started then. Rhonda, I think it would be best if you explained to Captain Beckett why you've come to me."

"Of course," Millard agreed and turned towards Beckett, who had taken a chair opposite her. "I don't know if you have heard about it, Captain. My son David died in April. He apparently fell off his horse when he tried to jump an obstacle. The police came to the conclusion that it was an accident, especially after they'd found that David had been drinking and taking cocaine the night before. But that just didn't feel right – David was an excellent rider, and he knew the obstacles on the course like the back of his hand. Then again I told myself that as his mother I just lacked the necessary detachment. I mean, accidents happen even to the best sportsmen, and what other explanation could there be?"

"Yet six months after your son's death you're obviously still having doubts," Beckett stated when Millard paused. "Did something happen that added to them?"

"Actually, it did. David had some … acquaintances I wasn't aware of 'til two of them dropped by my home in Yaote, informing me of some 'business' dealings they'd had with David."

"What kind of 'business' are we talking about?"

"Drugs. David wasn't dealing, mind you, and he was a recreational user, but he liked to treat his friends to cocaine every now and then. I didn't know the extent of his involvement in the scene, and I certainly didn't approve of his using at all, but he was my son."

Again she stopped talking, but Beckett didn't prompt her.

The Congresswoman took a couple of deep breaths and continued.

"The day before he died, David spontaneously bought a considerable amount of cocaine, and he didn't have enough money on him. The dealer accepted a pinkie ring as payment, which was worth more than what he owed them for the drugs. A few weeks ago, the dealer and her associate or whatever she was, tried to sell the ring back to John, David's brother. When he refused, they came to me. I sent them packing, of course. They're welcome to the ring, which wasn't of any sentimental value to me anyway. But even if it had been, I'm not paying drug dealers for anything."

"And do you suspect that they had anything to do with your son's death?"

"Not those two in particular, but we all know how dangerous and violent the drug business is. Maybe David rubbed shoulders with the wrong people. And then there is Julia Gordon."

She bit her lip.

"Please don't laugh, Captain, I know how silly this is going to sound. Julia found David. She is fifteen, an avid rider, and considers herself Yaote's own Nancy Drew. She thinks that David was murdered elsewhere, and the scene arranged to make it look like an accident."

"Based on what?"

"The hoofprints that show that Mercury, David's horse, jumped the obstacles after the one where David supposedly fell off. Julia says – to everyone who will listen – that horses only jump when their rider makes them, and Mercury would have bypassed the obstacles without David in the saddle."

Beckett didn't feel like laughing. She agreed with Millard that the girl's reasoning had an absurd ring to it, and in her experience drug dealers rarely arranged riding accidents to cover up their dirty deeds, but grieving parents had grasped at weaker straws than that, of course. What miffed her though was that the Chief hadn't seen fit to clue her in on why he had sent for her. She would definitely remember had David Millard died in her precinct – and how many horses were there within the borders of the Twelfth anyway?

Sensing her annoyance, Castle spoke up.

"Ms. Millard has asked me to look into David's death," he explained. "Going over the evidence assuming it was murder instead of an accident could make a difference."

"And I would be grateful if you could find out whether his … contacts in the drug scene are in any way involved after all, Captain Beckett," Millard added. "David had an apartment on Stuyvesant Square, which is in your precinct, I believe."

"I am sure that Captain Beckett will do everything in her power to help you with your search for the truth," the Chief promised, leaving no room for doubt that this was not a request but an order."

"Of course," Beckett said. "Let's start with what you remember about the two women who tried to sell your son's ring back to you."

Millard removed an accordion file folder and a key ring from and Hermès attaché case and slid both over to Beckett.

"I've done some preliminary research myself. Everything I found out is in this file, along with the Sheriff's case file and my contact information. Feel free to call anytime. The keys are David's, and the doorman knows that the police is going to show up. We – John and I, that is – removed only the absolutely necessary documents, and we emptied the refrigerator. Except for that the apartment is just the way it was when David left it."

"Do you have his cell phone, too?" Beckett asked, a little impressed by Millard's efficiency.

"It's in the folder. The thing is so thin, David constantly had to search for it."

"Well, I guess I've got what I need to start an investigation."

"Thank you, Captain," Rhonda Millard got up and shook hands with Beckett. "I really appreciate your efforts, and I sincerely hope Mr. Castle will agree to take the case, too."

"You'll hear from me in a couple of hours," the writer/PI promised.

Millard, Beckett and Castle made to leave after the politician and the Chief had exchanged the obligatory pleasantries, but the latter stopped Beckett.

"A word, Captain."

He waited until the door had closed behind the other two.

"Yaote may be in the boondocks, and Rhonda Millard's son's death was almost certainly an accident," he said. "But she is not without influence in Albany, and, even more importantly, a member of the Codes Committee, which means she is someone I'd really like to have in my corner – as does the mayor. So do not just go through the motions. It would probably a good idea for you to show your commitment by going to the son's apartment yourself. Let your husband deal with hoofprints and the local law's sensitivities and look into the drug angle. With any luck you'll make an unrelated arrest and boost up your stats."

"I will treat David Millard's death like any other case," Beckett replied and held the Chiefs' gaze, "by giving it my best shot."

"That's all I need to hear. Good luck, Captain."

Castle was in the hallway, looking a little nervous, when Beckett stepped out of the Chief's anteroom.

"I swear, I had no idea you'd be involved," he declared. "Neither the Chief nor Millard mentioned you by name, and all they talked about was the Governor's veto on naming safety personnel at some convention center 'peace officers'."

"You don't have to explain anything – I saw your face," Kate replied dryly. "You're not that good an actor."

"Do I feel relieved or wounded now?" Castle asked nobody in particular. "Well, maybe a little bit of both. So who are you going to assign the case to?"

"Myself, to some extent. The Chief made it clear that my personal involvement is expected. Visibly, of course. What about you? Are you going to Yaote yourself or will you leave it to Hayley?"

"So far, I haven't agreed to take the case – I wanted to hear what you think first. But since Millard apparently chose Richard Castle Investigations because you and I make such a good team, I can see a trip upstate in the very near future. Besides, Haley's leaving for London tonight, and will stay in the UK for at least a week. One of her old contacts asked for help."

"Do you have time to go over all this stuff with me?" Beckett gestured with the file Millard had put together. "I assume Millard's given you a lot more details. She had to persuade you to take the case after all, since, unlike me, you are in a position to refuse."

"As a good citizen I'll help the police any way I can. Shall I brief you while I pack my briefs? And speaking of underwear ..."

"Tempting, but I need to get Ryan and Espo on board, too – and do you really want them around while ..."

Castle clamped his hands over his ears.

"Stop it! Stop it now! You know how active my imagination is, and there are some things I don't want to even think of thinking about!"

"Well, let's go to the station, then."

"The Chief ordered you to investigate an accident that happened 200 miles away?" Esposito exclaimed in disbelief. "Are you sure he isn't in cohorts with your hubby, pulling your leg?"

"I am sure," Beckett replied firmly. "And the sooner we get started, the sooner we'll be done and can go back to normal. Castle, it's your turn. Try to be succinct."

"Your wish is my command. The victim, David Millard, was found dead next to an obstacle on his family's show jumping course in Yaote, which is, by the way, about 160 miles from New York, on April sixteenth by Julia Gordon, a high school sophomore. The ruling was that he fell off his horse and hit his head on a large stone. This was supported by the fact, that David had a blood alcohol level of point two-two and tested positive for metabolites. The medical examiner in Albany came to the conclusion that David had sniffed up to one hundred milligram in the twelve hours prior to his death."

"There's only one thing that's questionable about the ruling," Ryan stated. "How the hell did he get in the saddle in the first place? Most people would be too drunk to walk with that level, not to mention the coke."

"Maybe he fell off trying to mount the horse," Esposito suggested.

"The hoofprints indicate that not only did he make it into the saddle, he even cleared every obstacle," Castle replied. "There should be photographs of the crime scene in the folder."

"Did he just say 'crime scene'?" Esposito asked Ryan in a loud whisper, while Beckett paged through the files Rhonda Millard had given her.

"Here they are," she said. "Yes, it looks like someone rode through the course once."

"'Someone'?" Ryan echoed. "You think there was another rider?"

"It's possible," Beckett shrugged her shoulders.

"But not likely," Esposito countered. "Why wouldn't this hypothetical someone call nine-one-one?"

"Because he or she was as drunk and doped as David and panicked."

"Or because it was the murderer," Castle offered.

"There's no sign of a struggle," Ryan pointed out. "There's no sign of anyone at all besides the dead man, period."

"What was the guy doing in Yaote anyway, when he had a place here to get drunk?" Esposito asked.

"That I can answer," Beckett gestured at the Sheriff's case file. "He invited his New York friends to a party at the Millard home."

"That's what he bought the cocaine for, I guess," Castle said and related what he knew about the pinkie ring and the dealers' appearance in Yaote to the two detectives.

"What happened to the guests?" Ryan wanted to know. "Any of them staying for the night?"

"In a way, yes," Beckett answered. "In Bateauscreek, about ten miles from Yaote, courtesy of the State Police. They were stopped on the Interstate, driving in a convoy at ten mph, all of them drunk, most of them stoned. They're alibied, I'd say."

"What about a girlfriend?"

"That would have been a boyfriend," Castle took over. "Justin Cunningham, who, according to Ms. Millard, had an alibi."

"Yes, he made it into the cooler in Bateauscreek," Beckett confirmed. "He was released at eight thirty a.m., together with sixteen others, while the six drivers – five males, one female – were held for another couple of hours. But that's not relevant, because David's body was found at … six forty-three. At least that's when Julia Gordon called nine-one-one."

"Could he have done it before?" Esposito inquired. "I mean, if it were murder, which it wasn't."

"No way, the whole bunch was off the street at four a.m., and the M.E. puts the TOD between five and six a.m."

"Maybe the Gordon girl killed him," Ryan joked.

"Maybe the horse is homophobic," his partner proposed.

"Did Millard indicate to you that she'd considered a hate crime possible?" Beckett asked her husband.

"No, not at all. She barely mentioned that David was gay, just as an aside."

"Interesting. Or maybe it's the politician's force of habit to reveal only what's necessary."

"Or she could be one of those people who don't mention it because it doesn't matter to them," Castle pointed out.

"Could be. Did she tell you anything else she didn't repeat in the Chief's office?"

"Nothing that isn't be in those files."

"Right. Guys, copy the files and go over them. See if anything pops out, or maybe something's missing that should be there. Espo, we'll go to David's apartment as soon as I've cleared my desk. Ryan, your job will be to double-check the information we've got."

"You don't trust the Congresswoman?" Ryan asked.

"Just dotting the i's."

"I'm on my way, then." Castle got up. "Going to see this civilian out, Captain?"

"My, Castle, can't find the way out by yourself?" Esposito teased. "This could be an early sign of dementia."

"Shall I take him?" Ryan offered. "Give me a minute to make a cardboard sign with his name and address, just in case."

"I just want to have an intelligent conversation on my way downstairs," Castle countered, which earned him a round of good-natured jeers. "See you guys in a few days."

"Promise me to be careful," Beckett said, as she and Castle stepped into the elevator. "Just in case it was murder."

"Have you ever seen me doing anything rash and irrational?"

"Like pressing the button for the top floor right now?"

"That was intentional, since this is the only place in the building not monitored by cameras except for the loos. So where else can we say good-bye in a decent way?"

The name tag on the doorman's hunter green jacket identified the slight man in his forties simply as 'Fowler'. He took his time to study both Beckett's and Esposito's batches and ID cards, entering their names into the visitors' log in neat, minute letters.

"Ms. Millard told us to expect you," he informed them. "And she instructed us to answer any questions you might have about Mr. Millard."

"'Us'?" Esposito repeated.

"We offer around the clock service here at The Holland Building, meaning that there are four of us. Mr. Gregory will be here at five p.m., Mr. Soto at midnight, and Mr. Gilbert's next shift starts at eight a.m. on Saturday."

"Did you see a lot of Mr. Millard?" Beckett asked.

"That depends on your definition of 'a lot'," Fowler primly replied.

"More than the other residents?" Beckett suppressed a sigh. "Or did he stop for a little small talk?"

"He rarely got things delivered, so I only saw him come and go. Once I went up to his apartment to ask him to turn the music down, and I know that Mr. Soto had to do the same, too."

Esposito checked his notes.

"Mr. Millard lived in apartment Nine B. You heard the music down here?"

"Of course not. His neighbors had complained."

"Why didn't they talk to him themselves?"

"They tried to, but he wouldn't answer the door."

"But he did so when you came knocking," Esposito started to feel like a dentist.

"Immediately. Acting like Mr. Dunn hadn't been hammering at the door for ten minutes already. He apologized and turned his stereo off altogether."

"I take it that he didn't get along well with Mr. Dunn," Beckett concluded. "Do you know of any problems he might have had with other residents?"

"He had some run-ins with the Dunns," Fowler confirmed, "and he played pranks on several residents, but there weren't any formal complaints I ever heard of."

"What kind of pranks?" Esposito asked. "Toothpaste on the doorknobs? Fake doggy poop in the hallway?"

"Nothing that distasteful. He hid a tiny loudspeaker in the elevator and started to talk suddenly. One time he walled up the elevator's door on the fifth floor while everyone was at work."

"He walled up the door?"

"Using fake bricks that one only had to push against to bring the wall down. They looked like the real thing, though, and he'd cordoned off the area around the door with floor stands and security tape. Luckily Ms. Simpson asked one of my colleagues about the 'work' done the next day."

"Anything else like that?"

"Not exactly, but when Ms. Gomez and Mr. West moved into Three D, he dressed up as a priest, pretended to come from the Immaculate Conception Church, and gave them a fire-and-brimstone speech on sexual relations between unmarried persons. And then there was the incident with Ms. Hanson ..."

"Yes?" Beckett prompted.

"Well, Mr. Millard pretended to expose himself to her."

"What do you mean, he 'pretended to'. Did he or did he not?"

"I only heard about it from my colleague, Mr. Gilbert, who had been told about it by Mrs. Dunn. It doesn't feel right for me to tell you anything further on that subject."

"Very well, we can always talk to Ms. Hanson ourselves. Anything else you'd like to share about Mr. Millard?"

During the following ten minutes Beckett and Esposito extracted the information that David Millard usually went out late or not at all, came home at all hours, sometimes alone, most times in company. The company consisted either of one man or a whole group of people of both sexes, all of them appearing to be, in Fowler's words, 'beautiful, rich, and some of them having to work for the former, none for the latter'. Many of the visitors were regulars, including, for the last six months of Millard's life, the man who dropped by independent from the clique. A check of older visitors' logs confirmed him, as Beckett and Esposito had expected, to be the boyfriend, Justin Cunningham.

They tasked a grumbling Fowler with listing up the names of Millard's visitors from January onward and went to search apartment Nine B. Though not the stereotypical wealthy bachelor's abode, it bore no real surprises, except maybe for the acoustic wall panels that showed more concern for the neighbors (or his own peace of mind) than Fowler's account of Millard's behavior had let them to believe.

"He definitely had a thing for horses," Esposito stated, examining the crammed bookshelves lining three walls of a room that apparently couldn't decide if it wanted to be a study or a den. "Dozens of books about horse racing, show jumping, dressage, horse keeping, horse breeding, you name it. And he obviously spoke French. At least he could read it."

Beckett took a closer look.

"Sartre, Gide, Rimbaud, de Beauvoir – and Colette, too. Side by side with Levy, Musso, and Lelord – that's what I call eclectic," she said. "And on the next shelf the complete works of Zane Grey."

"Ha!" Esposito, who had drifted to the opposite side of the room, exclaimed. "Look what I found."

Grinning broadly, he held up a copy of "Storm's Break". "Your hubby's kind of omnipresent."

"He'll be thrilled. It doesn't help us with our job, though. Let's grab the financial files and correspondence and get back to the station."

"Shouldn't I stick around until Fussy Fowler's done with the list? I could use the time interviewing some of the residents. Maybe they saw or heard someone quarreling with the deceased."

"You're just hoping to ask this Ms. Hanson about the pretended flashing."

"Come on, we've been sent on a wild goose chase. We can at least ..."

"... eat the goose? Okay, go ahead. I'll get the apartment numbers of the residents Millard pranked from Fowler and text them to you."

As Beckett drove back to the precinct, she experienced one of the sporadic moments of yearning for the days she'd been out on the streets with Esposito and Ryan. Interviewing Ms. Hanson should be fun indeed.

Ryan had set up a whiteboard to collate the information on David Millard and his death and titled it 'Not-Murder-Board'.

Beckett refrained from commenting on it.

"Found anything of interest?" she merely asked.

"No red flags so far. The file's pretty comprehensive, though. Someone went to a lot of trouble to create it. It even contains composites of the women who tried to sell her the ring."

"Well, Congresswoman Millard has her staff, the congress research facilities, and, I assume, enough dough to hire outside help."

"Money certainly isn't a problem for her. Want me to outline her bio?"

"Yes, please."

"Okay. She was born in 1964 as Rhonda Williams. Grew up in Yaote, her parents owned one of the biggest farms in the county. Maybe 'agricultural company' would describe it better. Her mother was the mayor of Yaote for almost twenty years. Rhonda graduated with an MBA from Cornell in 1987 and inherited the family company the same year when her parents died within two months of each other. She promptly sold the business to Eugene Millard, co-founder and president of Farmland US, and married him six month later after a whirlwind romance. He was forty-six, her senior by twenty-two years. The twins John and David were born in 1989 – identical, as you can see. Okay, almost see."

Ryan pointed to two photographs from the DMV database he had pinned to the board side by side. One showed a clean-shaven David Millard, the other John Millard, sporting a full beard that hid the lower part of his face almost completely. The shape of the eyes, nose, and hairline were identical to David's though.

"When her sons were ten, Rhonda Millard went into politics," Ryan resumed his account. "She served two terms on the Yaote County Board of Supervisors, from 1999 to 2007. During her second term, in 2006, her husband died of a heart attack. After two years off the political stage she returned in 2009, unsuccessfully lobbying for the GOP's endorsement to run for the State Assembly. Same story two years later, but she finally got it for the 2014 election and won by a landslide. The polls indicate that she'll be reelected in a few weeks."

"Any scandals?"

"Nope, unless you count David's substance abuse, which became fodder for the rainbow press during her first campaign for a seat in Albany."

"And yet she won."

"By using it to her advantage. She never tried do deny it ..."

"What exactly was 'it' anyway?" Beckett interposed.

"Photographs of David and some friends smoking joints. They were on a private property in Vermont, so no charges were brought. As I said before you interrupted me ..."

"Sorry," Beckett involuntarily repeated the offense.

"... Rhonda Millard was up-front about it, telling the press that David had never gotten over his father's death, which occurred at a critical time of her sons' life – namely when they'd just started college. She claimed not to have known about him using until then, and that although both her sons knew about her firm anti-drug stance, both were grown-ups and responsible for their own actions. She ended her statement along the lines of hating drugs and loving her son, denouncing the legalization of drugs, and pledging to fight against it. The best thing about it was that everything she said was probably the perfect truth."

"Even that she was unaware of his using?"

"Okay, maybe not everything. But the voters believed her."

"What about the other son, John. Any whiff of weed around him?"

"No, he is squeaky clean. Found religion after his father had died, and is a deacon now in the ...", Ryan checked his notes, "… Church of the Holy Creation. Never heard of it."

"Neither have I, and I guess it won't matter to our assignment anyway. Reach out to Narcotics, maybe they have intel regarding David and/or his friends, especially those two dealers. Keep me informed of anything that looks fishy. Talking of fish, are there any developments on the attack on the owner of the deli?"

"Nope. The BOLOs for the suspects are out and their apartments are under observation. Amtrak, bus stations, and airport security are notified."

"Let me know as soon as one of them gets spotted. I'll be in my office."

"Working real cases like we used to," Ryan muttered to himself, and resignedly turned back to the Millard file.

A vein on Frank Dunn's forehead pulsated.

"David Millard was trouble, big trouble," he almost shouted, his face reddening alarmingly. "He was evil, he consumed drugs, and he had no regard for anyone but himself! Look what he did to poor Mrs. Hanson! An old woman like that! She could have had a heart attack. And him going to these young people, defiling our Lord's name. They were devastated. And when he put this thing in the elevator that said all kinds of things to unsuspecting people. He was a disgrace to the Holland, to his family, and to mankind itself. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say!"

With that, he slammed the door in Esposito's face.

"Detective Esposito, NYPD. I have a couple of questions regarding David Millard. You complained about the loudspeaker in the elevator, is that right?" Esposito asked the woman who had answered the door of apartment Four D.

"No, I didn't," she answered, frowning.

Esposito consulted his notes.

"But you are Ms. Linda Cooper?"

"Yes. Who said I complained?"

"Mr. Fowler, the doorman."

"That's a misunderstanding. I asked one of the others, Josh Gilbert, to make sure there wasn't a camera, too. I'd have talked to David myself, but he was away for the weekend. Why are you asking about that?"

"We're looking into something where David's name came up, and it would be helpful to know more about his character. I'm sorry, I can't say anything else."

"You don't have to, I can read between the lines. Drugs."

Esposito kept his face impassive.

"Coming back to the device David hid in the elevator. Was there a camera?"

"No, just a motion-activated speaker."

"And you didn't mind someone invisible suddenly talking to you? It must have been scary."

"The first time, yes. Though I wouldn't say scary, more like … startling? Anyway, the thing usually said things like 'hey, looking good today' or 'New York is in love with you'. The worst thing was 'didn't you forget something?', which drove my husband crazy because he always does. Car keys, his cell, gloves, papers, his glasses, you name it. Once he left in his bedroom slippers. Oh, sometimes it said 'are you sure your feet are clean?'."

"Sounds more funny than frightening. Somewhat creepy, though."

"Maybe. Jay Ford had his kids that weekend, and they rode the elevator all day just to hear 'The Voice', as they called it. And it turned out to be a good thing for us adults, too."

"How come?"

"This house used to be like anywhere else in big cities – you hardly know your neighbors, and you don't meet each other's eyes in the elevator, let alone speak to anyone. David's prank changed that, we began to talk. I'd met Cynthia Chen about a million times, and we'd never exchanged more than greetings. Then one day 'The Voice' made us laugh, and now we're in business together."

"What kind of business?" Esposito asked, simply out of curiosity.

"We both love making hats. We sell them through our own website, ."

She got up and took several business cards from her tote bag.

"Here you go, spread these around among your friends," she instructed Esposito. "And buy a nice one for your girlfriend."

"Oh, the wall," Michelle Simpson, a tanned, muscular woman in her early forties, said. "That was typical of David. Very ingenious and elaborate, but not malicious."

"But you and all the others on this floor had to walk an extra flight of stairs up or down," Esposito pointed out.

"So what? It's like an extra cardio workout. You see, the guys in Five A do parkour, the couple in Five C are absolutely mad about cycling, and the girl in Five D owns two or three gyms. We all were none the worse for it, and David invited us to dinner at his place as an apology."

"Alright. Thank you for talking to me."

"You're welcome. By the way, you look like you're working out regularly, too. You, umm, don't happen to be single?"

"Yes, David hid a little thingy in my bedroom that made buzzing noises, like a mosquito," Jason Ford, the occupant of apartment Eight A, told Esposito. "It took me three days – and nights – to find the damn thing. Then I smuggled it into my ex-wife's new ATM's study when I collected the kids. The guy's a total douche, he's probably still hunting the mosquito."

"No hard feelings towards Mr. Millard?"

"Dave? No, we laughed about it over a couple of beers afterwards. Besides, I nicked his car keys and stuffed his Porsche with confetti-filled balloons."

"He put on quite a show, and he was absolutely convincing," Scott West admitted.

"We just sat there like rabbits in the headlights," Angela Gomez added.

"And before we could fully recover, David knocked again, minus the cassock, but with this truly gigantic hamper from Katz's, saying: 'Hello, I'm David from Nine B. Welcome to the Holland – this time for real'."

"I got the impression that you'd been a little more disturbed by his behavior," Esposito said.

"Who told you that? Oh, let me guess – Dunn. He calls me 'Little Miss Gomez'. Not to my face, of course."

"He's a bigoted old meddler. If there really had been a priest at our door, it would have been Dunn who sent him."

Esposito had saved the interview with Irene Hanson for last. She insisted on serving coffee and cookies before talking about David Millard.

"These are delicious," the detective said appreciatively after the first bite.

"They're from 'Liszt', a Hungarian bakery, my favorite one," Hanson answered. "I never bake myself, I'm horrible at it. It's genetic – my mother and grandmother were as bad as I am, and my daughters and grandkids aren't any better. But you're here because of David, you said. Why? I thought it was an accident."

"We think so, too," Esposito didn't have to lie. "I'm sorry, but I can't go into the details."

"His mother threw her weight around, didn't she," Hanson stated, eyes twinkling in amusement.

Esposito was surprised. Everyone else had readily assumed that he was working a narcotics case.

"As I said, I'm not at liberty to tell you," he replied, keeping his face expressionless.

"Well, detective, I won't blab to my neighbors about my suspicions. What do you want to know?"

"The doorman told us about an incident between Mr. Millard and yourself where he didn't behave very gentlemanlike."

"David didn't behave gentlemanlike most of the time. I guess what you're so delicately trying to ask about is that time when he knocked on my door early in the evening, wearing a trench coat, with his feet and calves bare. He dramatically opened his coat, but was of course fully dressed underneath, his trousers pulled up to the knees. I wouldn't have minded the alternative – when you're eighty-three, there aren't many occasions to see that much of a well-built young man. In the end I got him to take them off, though."

Esposito was dumbstruck and certainly looking it, for Irene Hanson started to laugh loudly.

"They were all crumpled, so I made him iron them while I changed into an evening gown. You see, he'd come to take me to the Met. 'Aida', conducted by Plácido Domingo. And afterwards he took me to the Rainbow Room for a bite to eat and some dancing."

Her smile was tender and wistful.

"He was a lousy dancer, about as good at it as I'm at baking, but the look on people's faces alone was worth it."

Esposito left the Holland thinking about how every resident he'd talked to – with the exception of Frank Dunn – had ended the interview by saying 'I miss him'.

When Kate took Castle's video call, he breathed an inward sigh of relief that he had decided to stay dressed. Around the dining table a group of four was seated: Kate, Alexis, Lanie, and his mother.

"Hey, Babe," his wife greeted him. "I asked Lanie to take a look at David Millard's autopsy report and invited her over to share her findings with both of us."

Lanie gave a short wave.

"I came on my own accord to provide Katherine with moral support after hearing that some Congresswoman only had to snap her fingers to make you leave home for the middle of nowhere," Martha informed him.

"Thank you, mother, that is very thoughtful of you."

"And I not only live here, I also have good news regarding the Sinkey case," Alexis chimed in. "The deed was indeed hidden in the cuckoo clock. The Sinkeys are very grateful."

"As they should be," her father replied with a satisfied smile. "Now that was a case to my taste. So Poe."

"And how would you categorize your present case?" Kate asked. "Dick Francis?"

"Not sure yet. Feels like a Cozy, but you never know."

"Did you learn anything?"

"I've learned that 'yaote' is the Mohawk word for 'wind', and that the town is aptly named. Furthermore, the Millard home is an ideal venue for wild parties. The next neighbor lives three miles away, the house and gardens are surrounded by an allergenic barrier of trees and shrubs, and well set back from the road, which itself is tertiary at best."

"As I said, the middle of nowhere," Martha commented with a shudder. "Are you staying there?"

"No, I'm at the Darby Inn, a very nice B&B on Maple Fields Lane."

"What are your plans for tomorrow?" Kate inquired.

"First, I'm going to take a closer look at the obstacle course where David met his death - it was getting dark by the time I got there today. Later, I'm meeting the Sheriff for lunch, and a Sergeant Gonzales from the State Police for coffee in Bateauscreek. The last item on my list is visiting the Gordons and having a chat with Julia. The girl who cried murder. Have you found evidence to support that?"

"Zilch. The most interesting thing we found out is his penchant for playing pranks, sometimes quite elaborate ones, and that one of his neighbors was taking that badly. Maybe he didn't restrict his antics to New York and took it too far with a Yaotian or two."

"I'll bring it up with the Sheriff. What about the autopsy report? I've skimmed through it, but nothing leaped at me."

"That's because there's nothing to leap," Lanie took over. "The form of the head trauma matches the stone found under the body. Everything adds up."

"It says here that the injury was partly above the hat brim-line," Alexis said, who had rubbernecked. "Isn't that an indicator for foul play?"

"Not necessarily," the M.E. answered.

"What's the hat brim-line?" Martha asked.

"It's a virtual line around the hat where the brim of a hat would be," Lanie explained. "There is a rule that injuries above the line are made by a weapon, but in reality it's usually not that easy. If you have a victim lying on a flat surface and the trauma is above the HBL, you can reasonably surmise that it wasn't an accident. But if he hit his head on something irregularly shaped, like the stone in this case, the rule can't be applied."

"So in theory somebody could have picked up the stone, hit David with it, and laid it back on the ground where it had been," Castle hypothesized.

"In theory, yes," Lanie confirmed.

"Only it would be hard to do without leaving traces," Kate interposed.

"Hard, but not impossible. If there was a murderer, he or she could tidy everything up unobserved. The Millard home is not only a great place to get stoned without anyone noticing, it's an almost perfect spot for murder."

"A country house mystery," Alexis commented. "Only without a closed circle of suspects, a good number of motives, clues all over the place, and, of course, a death that was obviously a crime."

"At least we have the master detective," her father replied. "Ready to lend the baffled police a hand."

"Do you see yourself more as Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple?" Kate inquired. "Or maybe Father Brown?"

"I'm thinking of Ellery Queen," Castle countered. "Or I'll just be myself."

"So a queen investigates in a castle," Martha said. "That shines an interesting light on your psyche, kiddo."

"That's all very nice, but aren't we all convinced that it was an accident?" Lanie wondered.

"I am," Alexis answered.

"So am I," Kate agreed.

"A murder would be more interesting," Martha remarked. "And it would mean that Richard's trip into the wilderness wouldn't be for nothing. This neighbor you mentioned – couldn't he'd have driven up to the Millard estate and killed the guy, to restore peace and quiet to his home?"

"We haven't checked his alibi, but it's highly unlikely," Kate shook her head. "He's about sixty, and I don't see how he could have overpowered David, drugged and drunk or not. And why drive all the way up to Yaote to kill him, when he'd have ample opportunity to do the deed here?"

"That brings us back to the bumbling country policeman," Castle said, which resulted in three disapproving stares. His mother remained unperturbed.

"In a novel, of course," he amended hastily. "I'm not putting qualities of the Sheriff's office in question, but sometimes it needs an outsider to ask the right questions."

"So you are considering the possibility of murder," Lanie stated the obvious. "Well, it's your time to waste."

"And Congresswoman Millard's money," Martha pointed out. "How long are you planning to draw this out?"

"I'll give it 'til the weekend. If nothing's come up by then, I can close the case with a clear conscience."

"And I hope you'll convince Rhonda Millard to let us close the case, too," his wife sighed.

"I'll do my best," he answered, and, with a provocative wink, mouthed 'I'll call again later'.

"Dad, we can still see you," Alexis groaned, closing her eyes.

Kate just smiled and blew a kiss towards the monitor before ending the call.

"Wine, anyone?"

Kate struggled back into the real world, breathing hard. The dream had been especially vivid tonight – maybe she had on a subconscious level always known that Castle was still alive the other times when he'd been beside her. She checked the time on her cell: three minutes past two.

She fingered the phone, yearning to call Rick, not wanting to wake him up and even less to cause him feeling worried about her. She had only recently told him about her recurring nightmare, and it was still a tender subject with both of them. In the end she texted him 'luv u' and imagined his smile when he would read it in the morning.

He called just seconds later.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I didn't want to wake you up," she said, meaning it, but glad nonetheless.

"It wasn't you, it was the silence," he replied.

"The silence woke you up?"

"Uh-huh. You wouldn't believe how damn quiet it is here. I had to talk to myself to make sure I hadn't gone deaf. Why are you still awake?"

"I'd been sleeping, but I woke up and missed you."

"Did you dream?"

Kate closed her eyes. At times her husband showed empathy at the wrong time.

"Are you hoping for some more naughty talk?" she asked.

"Always, but you know what I mean."

She sighed.

"Yes, I dreamed," she admitted. "But I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Okay."

"I miss you."

"I miss you, too. It's the first time we're spending the night apart since we were shot."

"Yes, I know."

"It had to happen one time."

"We are ready for it."

"Are we?"

"I didn't call, I only texted."

"And I'm not getting ready to drive back to hold your hand."

"Good."

"But I really miss you."

"And I really miss you."

"Are we really talking like two teenagers having their first crush?"

"Yeah, I'm afraid we are. Embarrassing, isn't it?"

"Totally. Maybe we should change the subject."

"Anything special you want to discuss?"

"How about … remember the Mardi Gras in New Orleans last year?"

"As if I could forget. It was colder than we'd expected, but the bourbon helped. And the long, long shower we took back at the hotel."

"Exactly what I was thinking of."

Castle looked up from the police photographs and surveyed the obstacle course set well away from the main building, near a deserted stable. Nothing had been changed, except for the ditch that had been covered with tarpaulin.

David's body was found next to what the police report identified as an oxer, which Castle estimated to be about four feet high and wide. It was placed very close to the edge of the course, made of stones roughly the size of grapefruits. Next to the oxer, several stones where missing, taken by the police or the M.E. for testing.

Castle squatted to take a closer look. The stones were placed in three irregular lines, one half to two inches apart. The ground beneath was sandy, but when Castle lifted a rock, there was barely an impression in the sand. He took out his cell and recorded a voice memo: "Check weather conditions prior to death date."

He straightened and took a 360-degree visual. Apart from where the stables stood about ten yards away, he could see at least twenty yards in all directions, meaning there was no way someone could have crept up to David and surprised him. Behind the stables, on the southern end of the course, a fenced pasture stretched towards the line of trees surrounding the property.

To the east, a row of small shrubs magically transformed a few yards of rougher grass into a smooth lawn, bordered by rectangular flower beds and well-behaved trees Castle tentatively identified as hawthorn. It led to a terrace the size of a basketball court, and the two-story fieldstone house with a large chimney on one side.

North and west to where he was standing the woods screening the property from view were closer. Castle doubted their use against trespassers though - driving here an hour ago he had purposely followed Juniper Lane some fifty yards past the entrance to the Millard home, noticing that there were no fences, only a small ditch separating the lot from the road. Not that an additional barrier would have done any good, since the driveway was accessible to anyone. No gate, no bar or chain across it, just a sign saying 'private property'.

Just to be thorough, Castle walked to the edge of the grass and took a closer look. The trees were a mixture of evergreen and deciduous trees, growing far enough apart to allow thickets of shrubs in-between. Several of these waist-high specimen sported evil-looking thorns or spikes. Castle decided against a closer inspection.

But even with half of the trees leafless, he couldn't see where the woods ended. He made another memo: "Ask Julia Gordon why she was on Millard's land."

Castle met Sheriff Pamela Keller at The Family Room on East Main Street, a diner with seven tables seating twenty-six people. All places were taken except for a small table with a 'reserved' sign. Half the patrons were obviously local, nodding a hello to the Sheriff, and immediately got back to their food or conversation or both. The tourists were recognizable because they stared curiously or watched furtively from behind the menu or a newspaper. Castle recognized one couple from the breakfast room at his B&B.

A waitress led them to the reserved table, coffeepot at the ready, handing them menus. Keller got her cup filled without having to ask, Castle his after the tiniest of nods.

"Today's specials are butternut squash cream soup for starters, grilled pork chops with mashed potatoes and broccoli or veggie pot pie for the main course, and blueberry or apple pie for dessert."

"I don't need the menu, then," the Sheriff said, "squash cream soup, pork chops and blueberry pie for me."

"I second that," Castle smiled happily, "but with apple pie, please."

"Cream with the pie?"

"Of course," Keller answered.

"Better not," Castle shook his head sadly.

The waitress shot him a sympathetic smile.

"Anything else?"

"A glass of lemonade, please. I can definitely recommend it."

"Then I'll have one, too."

The waitress had the lemonade on the table in no time. Castle took a sip and decided that the Sheriff's recommendation was warranted.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Sheriff Keller", he began, and, cautioned by yesterday's video conference, continued, "let me first say that I'm convinced that you and your staff did an excellent job regarding David Millard's death. I just happen to believe in intuition, and Congresswoman Millard's tells her that there might be more to the story."

"'The story'", Keller repeated, "is that what you're here for? Looking for inspiration for your next book? Or do you want to keep the press from rehashing your and your wife's experience by giving them something else to write about?"

Castle was stunned. He'd expected the Sheriff to be territorial and probably disdainful of what she might see as an amateur butting in, but to have his motives questioned like that came as a hit from the blind side. Willing himself to stay calm, he took a minute to study the woman opposite him. The dark blue uniform neatly pressed, wearing discreet make-up and ear studs with small garnets, she would have looked very much the administrator, if it weren't for the heavy turquoise rims of her glasses, and the thick, gray braid that hung halfway down her back and would have suited any aging hippie worth her – or his – reefer. He now noticed, that her hands weren't those of a paper pusher, either, but bore evidence of a manicurist's hard-won battle against the traces of work beyond that of the mind.

"My mind's always open for ideas to use later on in my novels," he admitted. "But that's a by-product. And you're right insofar as I would like to return to be the 'famous' instead of the 'near-fatally shot' mystery writer rather sooner than later. That didn't play any part in my decision to take on the job, though. I did it because things like hoofprints that don't seem to fit the picture pique my curiosity, and because Ms. Millard's influence has got my wife involved. She is the Captain of the precinct David Millard lived in and was ordered to look into the drug angle."

"That sounds like the Rhonda Millard I know," Keller said. "Alright, Mr. Castle, I'm going to take your word for it that I won't see headlines like 'Famous Author Outshines Confounded Country Cops'."

"That would be far to long for a headline," Castle dryly commented. "What about 'Famous Author And County Sheriff Solve Hoofprint Mystery'?"

"Isn't that even longer?" Keller asked, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

The arrival of the soup gave Castle time to count.

"It is," he conceded. "But the sentiment counts, don't you think?"

"What I think is that the hoofprints don't mean a thing, but I've been surprised before. So tell me, how can I help? We gave Congresswoman Millard every piece of information we had, and she surely passed it on to you."

"She did, of course. I'm interested in background information on David and his family. If it was murder, and I'm not saying it was, would you think it possible that someone killed him to send a message to the family or something like that?"

"If that's the case, the message didn't get through. Had Ms. Millard received any serious threats, she would have told us."

"Did she receive any threats at all?"

"She's a politician, so of course she gets crank calls and letters. I asked her about it when she insisted on further investigations, and she had her aide bring everything over from Albany. Mostly the usual insults – my favorite was 'rich witch bitch' – and prophesies of punishment in the afterlife. Some were incoherent, and we deemed it impossible that whoever wrote them would be able to plan, let alone carry out, a 'murder' like this."

"And from what I gathered from the media, her political agenda doesn't create flaming debates. I'll cross her opponents off my list of suspects, then."

This time Keller smiled openly.

"How well do you know the Millards, Sheriff? Please tell me you went to school with Rhonda."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, I grew up in Rensselaer County and transferred from Troy PD sixteen years ago."

"In that case, you still must have quite a lot to tell. Has David been in trouble as a kid? From what I've heard, he was a prankster."

"Oh, both boys were, but it was harmless stuff. Once they went to a neighbor's farm at night and put pink legwarmers on his donkeys' legs – and there were six donkeys. And once, when they were fourteen, I think, they build a wall of snow directly in front of someone's bedroom window. The poor guy thought he'd been snowed in and called nine-one-one. My predecessor had to do something about it, but wise as he was, he had them shovel their victim's driveway for the rest of the winter."

"How did the boys take that?"

"Quite well, actually. They grumbled a little, but never missed a day. And they built a very big snowman with very big, protruding ears. Guess who had ears like that."

"Did they have to shovel the former Sheriff's driveway, too?"

"No, the man was not only wise, he had a sense of humor, too."

"What about the parents' sense of humor?"

"Gene's was more developed than Rhonda's, but both were okay with the boys' jokes, as long as nobody and nothing was seriously hurt and damaged. But they could be strict if they needed to. As far as I remember, neither of them drove John and David to their shoveling duties, they had to walk or take their horses. The latter option included drying and cleaning the horses afterwards, and all that before school."

"Ms. Millard told me that David was a good and experienced rider."

"He and John practically grew up in the saddle. Both their parents loved riding and the boys inherited the passion. David started to compete at show jumping tournaments when he was ten but gave it up after four or five years. He said that if you really wanted to make it to the top, you'd have to be ready to risk your horse's well-being – and he just couldn't bring himself to do that."

"But he still used the obstacle course at the family home. Or did he do that only when drunk?"

"No, he still loved the sport as such, just quit competitions. I don't know a lot about show jumping, but I'm told that the obstacles are on the harmless side."

"They looked pretty high to me, but then I'm neither a horseman nor a horse. Did John share his brother's sentiments regarding competitions?"

"John never went on tournaments in the first place, he always rode just for fun. You see, when it came to sports, he and David never competed with each other. John played baseball and ran long-distance, David was into basketball and hurdling. Maybe they made a pact, maybe it was just their nature. They loved each other, and were always very close, at least until Gene's death."

"Did you enjoy the soup?" The waitress appeared with their main course. "More lemonade?"

Both Keller and Castle praised the soup, declined the lemonade, and accepted a coffee refill. For the next few minutes, they relished their meal in silence.

"Gene's death hit the family very hard," Keller picked up the thread again. "John and David had just started college in Rochester, and both dropped out a few weeks later. They got back the next fall but went in separate directions from this time."

"Yes, I heard about that," Castle nodded. "One turned to God, the other to pot."

"Harshly put, but almost true. John enrolled at Syracuse University and graduated with an M.A. in Theology, while David read French at the City University in New York. Gene Millard's will stipulated for his sons' graduation with a B.A. to inherit a large chunk of money, and that's what David did. Got his B.A. and went his merry ways."

"You sound more sad than merry."

"Well, it is sad, when you look at it. David could have made more of his life. I keep thinking that if he'd gone for an M.A., he might have found his way again. Instead he decided to ride his horse through this obstacle course with more coke and alcohol than blood in his veins and fell to his death."

Castle speared a broccoli floret and wisely remained silent for a few moments.

"That's probably why his mother clings to the idea of murder," he finally said. "She needs a reason for his death because his life seems aimless. Which it wasn't. The way my wife tells it, he made a difference to his neighbors in the City, bringing them together, making them laugh. In New York, that can be quite a feat."

"Well, that's something."

They spent the remainder of the meal talking about life in Manhattan and Yaote. They parted at The Family Room's door, and Castle decided to visit the Millard's neighbors on Juniper Lane.

Beckett chased a lone kernel of corn around the plastic container which had held her lunch salad. It resisted arrest with such alacrity that she was almost ready to pardon it, but at long last managed to capture it. With her fork lifted halfway to her mouth, a sharp knock at her door caused her to flinch, and her prisoner fell to the floor.

"Yo, Cap," Esposito greeted her seemingly unoccupied desk, and stopped short. "Cap?"

"I'm here," Beckett straightened and tossed the yellow escapee in the trash. "The deli case?"

"Nope. The suspects are lying low. The same can be said about our not-suspects in our not-murder. Ryan and I left messages for Justin Cunningham and about everyone who signed in at The Holland for David's apartment, but not a single one of them has deigned to call back."

"How many did you try to reach?"

Esposito opened his notebook and counted silently.

"Twenty-six. David was popular."

"Was he popular with the narcotics guys, too?"

"They knew him, because he was arrested once during a raid in a night club. He tested clean and didn't have drugs on him, so he was let go. After a few weeks of on-and-off surveillance, they decided that there were bigger fish out there, and he wasn't leading them there. As for the composites of the women Ms. Millard had done – they've never seen them. And they're not among David's visitors – we checked the DMV photos."

The detective looked over his shoulder and took a seat in front of Beckett's desk, leaning forward.

"Are we sure these women exist?" he asked in a low voice. "Maybe Millard made the story about the ring up to light a fire under our butts."

"Didn't they approach John Millard first?"

"He could have gone along with the tale for the same reason."

Beckett thought it over.

"I'm inclined to believe her," she said, "but you're right, we should try to make sure. Go back to Stuyvesant Square and show the composites to the doorman. I don't think that guests coming in with a resident had to sign in. I'll call John Millard and ask him if he remembers anything about the women that he hasn't told his mother."

Sergeant Luis Gonzalez of the New York State Police looked like he'd been sent over by Central Casting. Tall, muscular, square-chinned, steely-eyed, his whole demeanor screamed 'law enforcement', rendering his perfectly pressed uniform almost redundant.

He stood in the doorway of Bateauscreek's Dunkin Donuts for a few seconds, looked the crowded place over, identified Castle, and gave him a curt nod before taking his place in the queue at the counter.

After almost three hours of fruitless interviews with the Millards' neighbors, Castle had arrived early and was by now well into his second large cappuccino, halfway through a small bag of munchkins, and in dire need of a bathroom. But from the way incoming people shot daggers at those seated, he was sure that even with his coat left on the chair, someone would grab the table as soon as he were gone.

When Sergeant Gonzalez finally sat down with his extra-large regular coffee and Sour Creme Donut, Castle shot up and excused himself. On his return, Gonzalez' face indicated that this hadn't been the best way to make his acquaintance.

"Sorry for that," Castle apologized. "And thank you for your time, I really appreciate it."

"My time is limited," the Sergeant responded. "What do you want to know?"

"Congresswoman Millard asked me to look into her son's death, especially a possible drug angle," Castle decided to be businesslike, too. "According to my research, four young people have died of heroin overdoses since June, three of them within two days. Could there be a connection to New York City?"

"What kind of connection? And what's that got to do with David Millard, who was on coke, not H?"

"That's true, but what I'm thinking is that if the heroin came from New York, David Millard might have known one of the providers and therefore posed a threat. He was, after all, involved in the New York drug scene, and sometimes the world is small for its size."

Gonzalez' brow furrowed.

"Too far-fetched," he said dismissively. "The guy wasn't a player, just a buyer. And even if he recognized a dealer, it would be some small fish who could be replaced easily. Besides, why would David get himself in trouble by siccing the authorities on his own contacts?"

"He might not have intended to, but the guy, or girl, couldn't be sure of that," Castle pointed out. "And if you want to stay in the drug business, a little paranoia is always helpful. Or the small fish panicked."

"No, I just don't see it. Too many coincidences. And for the record, there's no indication that the dope we're dealing with comes from New York, or that some big shot from the City is involved at all."

"But you don't know for sure."

"No, I don't know for sure. Albany is much closer, though."

"I'll give you that but won't ditch the possibility of a fatal coincidence just yet. Another thing: the participants of the cavalcade you stopped the day of the incident – have you asked them about the two women who claimed to be David's dealers?"

"That would be the NYPD's job. They weren't in our jurisdiction when the alleged dealers paid the Congresswoman a visit. And even if they had been, I doubt that we'd gotten any information from them."

"Why's that?"

"They were booked at four a.m., give or take a few minutes, the least drunk of them made a call at ten past the hour, and fifteen minutes later a local lawyer showed up, advising them all not to talk to us. At seven a.m. a 'cavalcade' of gray Audis arrived – is there a law that high-end lawyers have to drive the same make and model? We had seventeen people in custody, and seven lawyers showed up, one for each of the drivers, one for the rest. I was on duty, and I heard only two of those coke-heads speak."

"But they were prosecuted, weren't they?"

"Our D.A. made deals. The ones who weren't driving paid the highest fine possible for public intoxication due to drugs – 250 dollars each. The other six paid top dollars, too, 1000 dollars apiece, lost their driver's licenses for six months, and got 200 hours of community service."

"Sounds like a good deal – for the coke-heads."

Gonzalez suddenly had a glimmer in his eyes that Castle would have described as a 'mischievous twinkle' on any other person.

"They had to work them off in Yaote County," he said. "In different communities – Yaote, Bethany, Meridian, Tabor, Stanleytown, and here in Bateauscreek, and it's hard to get people scattered around the County any more than that."

"And with their licenses suspended, they couldn't get around easily," Castle got the point. "Very clever of your D.A."

"Yes, she's a sage woman."

"Is she related to the former Sheriff?" Castle joked.

"He was her grandfather, I believe," Gonzalez answered a little surprised. "Why are you asking?"

"Oh, nothing, just plain old curiosity. One last question, Sergeant – is there anything you know relating to David Millard's drug habit that his mother doesn't know."

Gonzalez' eyes became pure steel again.

"Everything I know 'relating to David Millard's drug habit' is in my reports. Good day, Mr. Castle."

With that, he got up and left.

John Millard returned Beckett's call exactly at four p.m., as his secretary had promised two hours earlier. His mother had apparently spoken to him after the meeting at the Chief's office, for he knew who she was and didn't ask why she wanted to talk to him.

"We're trying to identify the two women who tried to sell you and your mother the ring," she explained. "Could you please describe your encounter with them to me? It's possible that some detail comes back to you that will help us."

"You think so?" Millard asked dubiously. "I'll try of course, but don't expect too much. They didn't stay that long."

"It's a long shot, but sometimes it works."

"Alright then. It was three weeks ago, on … Tuesday, I think. Yes, that's right, I attended the prayer meeting afterwards. Anyway, my secretary had left for the day, and the women rang the doorbell. It must have been around five."

"Are you always in your office at that hour?"

"On Tuesdays, yes, because of the prayer meeting. I let them in because they looked respectable – I thought they were lost and had rung because the lights were on. And when they asked for me by name, I assumed that they were either authors or agents or both. You know that I own a small publishing company?"

"Yes, 'Seventy Publications'."

"Of course, you called me here, how silly of me. Talking about David and his demons isn't easy, as you can imagine, so please forgive me if I'm a bit perturbed."

"There's no need for an excuse, Mr. Millard," Beckett said, and decided to change the subject to give him a little time to regain his equilibrium. "Speaking of your company, I am a little curious about the name. The number isn't part of your address, and you certainly did not found it in the 1970s."

"It is a reference to the seventy names on the Table of Nations in the Book of Genesis, as well as to the seventy apostles the Lord appointed in the Gospel of Luke. We publish books and pamphlets about Christianity, faith, and how to live your life in a way worthy of the Lord and his creation, as well as novels that are in keeping with our religious beliefs and goals. I could send you our catalog."

"Thank you. Please do. To come back to the two women – did they pretend to be looking for a publisher?"

"No, they came right to the point. As far as I remember, the shorter one said something like 'your brother bought something from us and left this ring as security, but we're more interested in cash. We thought you might want to buy it back for 500$'. When I asked what David had bought, the other one said 'powder boxes'. I was completely perplexed, because David had never cared for militaria."

"Have you ever seen David wear that ring?"

"Not that I remember, but we hadn't seen each other for several months. I tried for years to help him overcome his affliction, encouraging him to pray, but he wouldn't hear of it."

"Addiction puts an enormous strain on families."

"I'm talking about him having relations with men. Using drugs was his way of dealing with his illness. Had he put himself into God's hands, he might have been healed, but he chose to destroy his body, which tells me that deep inside he was aware that he was breaking God's laws."

Beckett shuddered.

"After our last quarrel, we avoided meeting each other. We spoke on the phone now and then, or e-mailed, but I thought it better to spent Christmas with my fiancée's family in Piseco, while David was in Yaote with my mother. But that's not what you were calling about. As I said, I have a hard time dealing with his death. Where were we … the ring. The women had a photograph of David wearing it, but I didn't really look at it, because I was still confused about the 'powder boxes'. The women realized that I didn't get their meaning, and one tipped her nose with a finger. Then I understood, and I told them to leave immediately and not to contact me ever again, which they did. It occurred to me only afterwards that I should have stalled them and secretly called the police."

"No, Mr. Millard, you did the right thing. You might have put yourself in danger by trying something like that. Drug dealers aren't known for their timidity."

"But I should have told my mother. Only I didn't want to add to her grief."

Beckett told him that she understood, and, to give her cover story credence, went over a few details with him that he hadn't mentioned during this interview, but which appeared in his statement his mother had put in the file. She thanked him for his help and ended the call.

The accounts matched each other, but not so much so as to sound rehearsed. If the two dealers really were a fabrication, John Millard was an accomplished liar indeed.

She went into the bullpen to the 'Not-Murder-Board' and erased the question 'do they exist?' Esposito had written next to the composites of the mysterious sellers of powder boxes. Looking at the photographs of David and John Millard, she tried and failed to link her mental image of the cocaine-addicted practical joker to that of the arch conservative evangelical publisher.

Julia Gordon was in no way ordinary, but Castle could clearly envision her blending in if she wanted to. Neither tall nor short, neither chubby nor skinny, with regular features, brown shoulder-length hair, and brown eyes, she came close to be the epitome of 'The Girl Next Door'.

She sat between her parents on the sofa in the Gordon's family room, looking excited. Her parents appeared to be curious and suspicious in equal parts. Julia's three siblings had been sent to their rooms to do their homework - which they insisted they had finished already.

"You must understand, Mr. Castle, that it was traumatic for Julia to find David like that," Thomas Gordon told Castle. "I don't like the thought of bringing it all up again."

"I have a daughter myself, Mr. Gordon. She's twenty-one now, but I still feel the urge to protect her as much as I can. But Julia's observations might be very important."

"And it's not like I've forgotten about it," Julia piped up. "I'm sure that telling Mr. Castle what happened won't harm me. Isn't it even supposed to be therapeutic to talk about a trauma?"

"If it is, you've been through therapy at least twice," Wendy Gordon said dryly. "I'm not happy with the idea of you reliving the event again either, Jules, but you've done it anyway since Rhonda Millard called to announce Mr. Castle's investigation."

"I'll be as careful as I can, "Castle promised. "According to the police report, you called nine-one-one at a quarter to seven. What it doesn't say is how you came to be at the Millard's obstacle course in the first place. Are you into show jumping, too?"

"No, I prefer cross-country riding," the girl answered eagerly. "I was there because I'd found Mercury, that's David's horse, in the clover field of the Lawson farm, and brought him back."

"The Lawson's own the farm next to the Millard's place, and they've been quarreling about one thing or another for years," her mother explained. "Mercury feeding on their clover would have been water on their mill."

Castle had spoken with the Lawsons earlier in the day. He remembered them as a couple in their fifties, who didn't have much to say about the Millards, good or bad.

"They don't plant it for pleasure," Thomas Gordon argued. "A horse grazing in their field endangers their livelihood."

"Then they should invest in a fence that a horse can't kick down so easily."

"Why? Horses shouldn't be on the loose in the first place!"

"Mercury is absolutely mad about their clover," Julia put an end to her parents' bickering. "When I ride him I don't go near it. And because I don't want to make him homesick."

"You are riding David Millard's horse now?" Castle asked.

"After David's accident Mrs. Millard decided to stable their horses with us instead of keeping them at their place," Julia's father told him. "It didn't make sense to keep the stable running with only three horses and none of the family there to ride them. Horses need to be exercised."

"And I'm helping with that," Julia said. "Do you want to see them?"

"Maybe later," Castle answered. "So you found Mercury having a feast at the Lawsons' expense. Was he saddled?"

"Of course," Julia replied with only the slightest undertone of 'stupid question'. "I thought that David might be hurt because he never let Mercury wander around by himself.

She shot her father an accusing look, who gazed back sternly, but grinned as soon as she turned away.

"This clover field – where exactly is it in relation to the obstacles?"

"Just on the other side of the trees and Quade Knoll Road."

"It lies off Juniper Lane right where the Millard property ends, running parallel to the western property line," Wendy Gordon clarified.

"And there's a small path through the trees from the obstacle course to the field," her daughter added. "David showed it to me one day. We'd both been out riding and met by chance near Pebble Creek Spring. We were heading home, so we rode together, and he told me how he and his brother had created the path as kids by taking the same shortcut over and over again. I thought maybe he'd hit his head against one of the lower branches, and went to look, which wasn't easy with two horses. When I came out of the trees, I saw him lying there."

Despite her earlier assurances, Julia had to stop. Blinking tears away, she gulped down her glass of iced tea.

"You don't have to do this," her mother reminded her.

"I'm okay, mom, it's just that I liked David, even though I didn't know him very well. He was funny and kind. He didn't treat me like a little girl, and he loved horses as much as I do."

She took a deep breath and continued.

"When I saw him, I hitched the horses to a tree, ran over to him and checked his pulse, then called nine-one-one. I sat next to him while I waited for the police, but it didn't feel right to look at him all the time. Not because he looked gross, he didn't, more like it was, I don't know, private. Him being dead, I mean. That's when I saw that he had gone through the whole course once, but the oxer isn't the last obstacle. Do you have a piece of paper?"

Castle opened his notepad to an empty page and handed it to her with his pen. Julia quickly sketched the course, numbering the obstacles, and marking the oxer next to which David had lain. Then she drew a squiggly line resembling a very sloppily tied ribbon with one bow twice as big and one end longer than the other.

"I know that this is how the course was laid out because the plan was tagged to the stable door," she told Castle. "The Sheriff wasn't interested in it, so I took it, thinking that either Mrs. Millard or Stacy Kim might want it."

"Who's Stacy Kim?"

"She looked after the horses when the Millards still used their own stable. She did everything from exercising them to mucking out, and she designed a new course for David and Mercury every couple of months. When she was young, she almost made it to the Olympic Games. She got injured later and couldn't compete anymore."

"Is she still around?"

"No, she moved away, I don't know where."

"Lexington," Wendy said.

"Louisville," Thomas claimed at the same time.

"Somewhere, and I gave her the plan. But I've been looking at it so often that I know it by heart now. As you can see, there are ten obstacles, and the oxer is number seven. Mercury went over every obstacle once, but he wouldn't jump over them on his own accord."

"Your theory is that David was killed after he'd finished the whole course and then laid down next to the oxer to make it look like an accident. Did you see footprints leading back from the last obstacle to the seventh?"

"That area was completely trampled. It looked like Mercury had trotted back and forth several times."

"Would he do that?"

"He might. But the other prints still don't make sense."

"Okay. Let's assume it wasn't an accident, do you have a suspect? Or a motive?"

"No, I don't," the girl admitted reluctantly. "I mean, why would anyone want to kill David? He was nice."

"Do you know where Stacy Kim was when it happened?"

"At home, with her boyfriend. I checked that."

"Jules!" Wendy Gordon exclaimed horrified. "You had no business prying into Stacy's life."

"It wasn't necessary, mom, everybody knew about it. One of their ponies foaled, they were in the stable with her all night."

"We will talk about this later."

Julia pouted.

"I can't think of anything else to ask," Castle said. "Thank you for talking to me, Julia. You've really got a keen sense of observation, and I'm going to look very closely at the information you've given me."

"You're welcome, Mr. Castle. It was nice talking to you. Tell me, did your daughter read your novels when she was my age?"

"Yes, she has been my first critic since she turned twelve, and very good at finding typos."

"See?" Julia turned to her parents with a triumphant smile.

"But in hindsight it would probably have been better not to let her do it," Castle added hastily. "Umm, what about showing me the horses? Does the offer still stand?"

"In addition to the Millards' three horses, the Gordons have six of their own," Castle told his wife in the evening via video call. "I've been treated to the grand tour, with every quadruped's family tree four generations down. I think Julia's parents didn't cut it short in revenge for my mentioning Alexis reading my books as a teenager."

"Did Nancy Drew provide you with new clues?"

"Actually, I think of her more as Trixie Belden than Nancy Drew."

"Trixie Belden? How do you even know of her?"

"Trying to impress a girl, of course. Dawn Cook. She loved the books, and for seven glorious weeks we were Trixie and Jim."

"What happened?"

"Kenneth Shelton. His family owned horses."

"Poor you."

"Yes, my heart was broken. Fortunately, the breakup happened shortly before the summer holidays, and we went to different high schools afterwards."

"How old were you then?"

"Twelve."

"Alright. Getting back to Julia – what did you learn?"

"She named her horse 'Chocolate Muffin', but she was only four at the time, so it's pardonable. Unless you're the horse. And did you know that male horses have more teeth than females?"

"About David's death."

"Julia has a point regarding the hoofprints, but I'm not sure it adds up to foul play, especially without suspects and motives. I think it would be possible to camouflage a murder as an accident, but it might as well have been exactly what it looked like. How are things at your end?"

"The alleged drug dealers remain unidentified. At least Mr. Fowler and Mr. Gregory confirmed that they'd been to the Holland, but they always came with David, meaning they never signed in."

"Any luck with the boyfriend?"

"Nope. Hasn't answered his phone, hasn't called back. Same thing with any of David's other acquaintances. I'll have Ryan and Espo pay Cunningham a visit tomorrow, but there's no way they can make him talk to them if he doesn't want to."

"No legal way."

"Which in my world means 'no way'. What are you up to tomorrow?"

"I did an internet search for Stacy Kim, the Millards' former 'horsekeeper'."

"That's a good one!"

"Thank you. I looked her up on the net. As number six on the long list, she almost got on the show jumping team for the Atlanta Games when she'd just turned twenty. In 1998 she seriously hurt her neck in a skiing accident and became addicted to pain killers, which effectively put an end to her career in professional show jumping. She managed to kick the habit around 2004 and got hired by the Millards. In June she and her boyfriend moved away, according to the Gordons to either Louisville or Lexington, but there's no trace of her in either city."

"And the boyfriend?"

"His name's Juan Vasquez. There's one in each of the two towns. And more than 160 Stacy Kims in the States. I'll try to find someone who's still in contact with them or at least knows which place they've really moved to. With any luck I'll reach her by phone."

"I could put their names through the police data bases."

"Wouldn't that be illegal?"

"Not if they're persons of interest in a case."

"They're alibied by the local vet and had no motive to kill David. Besides I'd like to have something to show that I did more than just go through the motions. But I'll come back to your offer if anything else fails."

"And when will you come back to New York?"

"The Congresswoman is coming to Yaote tomorrow evening. I'll report my findings and be on the road early the day after."

"What if she wants you to continue?"

"I can work on the drug angle in New York, saving you some effort. There's nothing more to be done up here. Though Yaote's beginning to grow on me in some ways. I'll just say one word – apples."

"Are you talking about the fruit or is there a dom in Yaote I should know about?"

"A dom? Oh, I see. No, definitely the fruit. They grow the most delicious apples I've ever eaten here, and the variety is astounding. I'll bring a pound or two with me."

"Do that. And stay away from the doms."

"You're the only woman with rights to my body."

"In that case, let me tell you what I have in mind for the day after tomorrow."

"Beckett? One of the deli muggers, Adam O'Brien, has been sighted," Ryan reported hurriedly. "He's been hiding in a friend's house in Ozone Park, but the friend's wife got scared and called the police. The guys from the One-Oh-Six are watching the place, keeping out of sight. They don't want a hostage situation on their hands."

"Who's in the house?"

"As far as it's known the wife and her mother, and the scumbag."

"Damn. Go ahead with Espo, I'll follow you."

"On our way."

"Who are you again?" Stacy Kim asked suspiciously.

"Richard Castle. I'm a P.I., and Congresswoman Millard has asked me to look into her son's death," Castle repeated patiently. After three hours of talking to the former neighbors of Stacy Kim and Juan Vasquez, the pastor of St. Francis de Sales in Bateauscreek, where the couple had attended mass, and former colleagues of Vasquez at Jersey's Yaote Nurseries, none of whom admitted to knowing the couple's new address, he'd gone back on the internet. Apart from the two he already located in the Kentucky towns, he found two Juan Vasquez' in Louisville, Colorado, and another in Louisville, New York, as well as five men by that name in as many Lexingtons - in Massachusetts, Nebraska, New York, North and South Carolina, and Virginia. Starting and drawing blanks with the Kentuckians, he first called the number in New York and worked his way in a widening circle. On five occasions his opening line 'Hello, my name is Castle, may I speak to Ms. Stacy Kim, please' were met with a denial of the existence of any such person at the respective address, the other half of his calls went to mailboxes or remained unanswered. He didn't fare any better with the eleven Stacy Kims the White Pages listed in a four-hundred-mile radius around Yaote.

He decided to stop racking up the phone bill, but to rack his brains instead. The fact that none of Stacy's and Juan's acquaintances knew where the couple had gone smelled of deception, which Castle thought extremely suspicious. What he knew, though, was that lying to many different people wasn't an easy task. Inexperienced liars tended to either inadvertently choose a fib with a connection to the truth or, if they were aware of that pitfall, tell the exact opposite. Castle couldn't think of anything that could be taken as the opposite of both Lexington and Louisville, but at least the two cities shared the first letter. The only town starting with 'L' less than four-hundred miles north, south, or west of Louisville, Kentucky, that laid claim to a Juan Vasquez, was Lansing, Michigan. He resolved to give it a shot before admitting defeat and calling his wife for help. The phone was answered by a woman whose reply to Castle's query was 'speaking'.

"How do I know you're not a reporter?"

"You could call Ms. Millard's office for verification."

"I'll do that. If your claim pans out, I'll text you. Otherwise my lawyer will have your number within a minute."

With that promise, Stacy Kim ended the call. Five minutes later Castle received a four-letter word text – 'Call'.

"What do you want from me?" Stacy Kim obviously wasn't into pleasantries.

"I'd like your opinion on the matter of the hoofprints," Castle had decided to tread lightly. "I'm sure you know about Julia Gordon's claim regarding the likelihood, or lack thereof, of a horse jumping obstacles on its own. You know Julia and Mercury, which makes you the expert on this."

"I never saw a riderless horse go over any obstacle more than two feet in height they could pass by, except in a panic," Stacy confirmed a little reluctantly.

"Not even out of habit, because they're trained to do so?"

"Horses aren't sheep."

"Does Mercury tend to panic?"

"Not that I know of."

"So you agree with Julia that David's death wasn't an accident?"

"I wasn't there when she found him. When I arrived, the paramedics and cops had been all over the course, obliterating any prints there might have been."

"Are you saying Julia made the whole thing up?"

"I'm saying that I wasn't there, period. Is there anything else?"

"To be truthful, I'm a little curious about why you're gone into hiding. You went out of your way to obliterate your traces."

"It's none of your business, but I'd rather you don't go around speculating. As a recovering addict, I didn't want to be connected to a drug-related death. If you're worth Ms. Millard's money, you've already checked my past, and you know I made the headlines before. The last time wasn't exactly a picnic, except for the vultures of the press feasting on the remnants of my career. Not my words, one of those vultures said this to me to gain my confidence. Fool that I was, I trusted him, and suffered the consequences. I don't want to go through an ordeal like that again. To make myself crystal clear – if anyone learns of my whereabouts, or anything I told you gets repeated, my lawyer will sue you from here to eternity. Got that?"

"I got it. And I've already forgotten everything else," Castle promised. Stacy's answer was either 'Goodbye' or 'Good. Bye' followed by the busy tone.

He decided to treat himself to a late lunch at the Fruit Basket Café, which according to a leaflet he'd picked up on checking into his B&B was a an upscale country store selling everything from designer furniture to designer toilet spray, as well as serving gourmet coffee and food.

"Are you nuts? You're the captain. Your job is to delegate, not to do crazy stuff like that," Esposito fumed. Ryan nodded emphatically.

"I heartily agree with your detectives," Bruce Haviland, Captain of the 106th precinct, supported them. A thin man with even thinner hair, he gazed at her as if she'd suddenly sprouted horns.

"There's no need to put yourself in danger," he added. "The hostage negotiator will be here within forty-five minutes."

"Right now we don't have a hostage situation," Beckett argued. "But sooner or later O'Brien will notice how deserted the street is, and as a career criminal he'll know what a panel truck parked six doors down means. Then we'll need the negotiator, or worse, and I'd prefer to resolve the situation before it comes to that."

"But why you?" Ryan asked. "I could do it."

"As a woman I'm the least threatening of us. And before you bring it up, Captain Haviland, your female officers are too young to act the role. Of course it's your precinct and your decision, but I hope you'll see my point."

Haviland closed his eyes for several moments before throwing his hands up in surrender.

"Have it your way. But don't expect flowers when you end up in hospital."

He signaled the driver and the panel truck they were in drove towards the next intersection, turned right, and stopped fifty yards down the street.

Castle's cell rang as he was busy enjoying the view over Yaote valley and a cup of Guatemalan Pacamara coffee.

"Rhonda Millard," the caller identified herself. "I'm sorry, but I wont be in Yaote before nine, thanks to one of my esteemed colleagues calling an emergency meeting over some imbecilic tabloid story."

"That's okay with me. I'll just wait for your call."

"Thank you. Have you found anything to indicate that David was murdered?"

"I can't speak freely at the moment. All I can say is that I found out how it could have been done."

"Really? That's good. I'm sorry, I've got to go. See you this evening."

Castle felt a little uneasy about the abrupt end of the conversation. Hopefully, he hadn't raised the Congresswoman's expectations too high. He paid the bill and left the Fruit Basket Café to write his report in the privacy of his room at the Darby Inn.

Beckett buttoned her coat over her Kevlar vest and twisted her hair into a knot. She grabbed a clipboard and walked over to the five-year-old Honda parked across the street from the panel truck. A young man in blue jeans and a faded Queens College sweatshirt handed her the keys.

"My mother is very particular about her car," he told her. "She'll kill me if there's as much as leaf on the floor mats."

"Don't worry, Officer Demling, I'll take good care of it," Beckett promised. She looked at the group of people gathered around the car.

"Everyone wearing their vests?" she asked. "Good. Officers Demling and Trost will begin the distraction in five minutes from now. Let's roll."

Another panel truck, this one made out to be from a pest control company, started in one direction, Demling and Trost, who wore sweatpants and a Mets hoodie, in the other. The truck parked in the driveway next to the house Adam O'Brien was hiding in, shielding the approach of Ryan, Esposito, and two Queens officers from view. The four took cover on the blind side of the targeted residence, watching Beckett drive up in the Honda, as Demling and Trost started a small, but noisy firework one street over, in order to keep O'Brien's attention on the back of the house. Esposito and Ryan climbed over the porch rail and took position on both sides of the door. Beckett knocked just seconds later. An older woman opened.

"Kate Houghton from the Board of Elections Offices," Beckett flashed her gun permit. "Are you Mrs. Sara Webb?"

"No, that's my daughter," the woman, who Beckett had known beforehand wasn't Sara Webb, answered.

"Is she in?" Beckett asked another question she knew the answer to. "There's a problem with her DOB on her voter registration form."

"Sara? Could you come to the door? Something's wrong with your voter registration."

As Beckett had hoped, Sara's mother stayed where she was as her daughter appeared.

"What's up?" she asked. "Who are you?"

Beckett put her finger to her lips for a second and showed them her badge, all the while talking about Sara's registration form. Opening the screen door, she waved them out and into the hands of the two officers rushing over from their hiding place at the side of the house, then drew her gun and followed her detectives inside. The driver of the pest control truck honked the horn once to alert Trost and Demling and positioned himself near the porch steps.

Inside the house, the Manhattan cops fanned out. Within seconds Ryan called out 'back room', where Esposito and Beckett found him cuffing Adam O'Brien after they had checked the other rooms.

Captain Haviland awaited them outside.

"Thank you for your help," he said. "We'll take over now and book Mr. O'Brien at the station."

"But he's our arrest," Esposito protested.

"And the crime happened in the Twelfth," Ryan added.

"As your Captain said, it's my precinct and my decision. Hand over the prisoner."

All eyes were on Beckett, who paused slightly and then gave a nod.

"We'll send someone over with a habeas corpus," she promised.

"Do that, but it's Friday, and I'm not sure we'll get the paperwork done today," Haviland smirked ever so slightly, contrary to his officers, who grinned openly.

"I can't imagine you running a disorganized precinct, Captain Haviland," Beckett said, the warning unmistakable in her voice. "And for your information – our DA can be very impatient."

She turned to Ryan and Esposito, who still kept their hands on O'Brien's arms but released their grip reluctantly. Haviland repeated the Miranda warning and led the suspect to a patrol car.

"Let's get back home," Beckett said quietly. "We'll have him back in our custody soon enough."

An hour later Beckett left her office and sat on the edge of Esposito's desk.

"The ADA called back," she told them. "She's got the habeas corpus ready to be signed. As soon as the judge is done, she'll give Dean a ring, and he'll send someone over to Queens with it to pick up O'Brien. Let him enjoy the comfort of our holding cell tonight, just finish your reports, hand them to Dean and go home."

"What about you?" Ryan asked.

"I'm leaving a little early for a change. Like now."

"You're already done with the paperwork?" Esposito asked incredulously.

"Unlike other persons who shall not be named, I didn't waste time reenacting the whole operation in the break room."

"So what's your plan for the rest of the husband-free time?" Ryan inquired.

"I thought I could get the Ferrari out for a ride. It's a nice day for a trip upstate."

Castle carefully fitted a container of apple cider between two boxes of apples in the trunk of his car.

"I see you've found your way to Bench Peak Orchard," a voice commented from behind him.

"Sheriff Keller," Castle turned around. "Tell me that this is a chance meeting, or are you keeping an eye on me, lest I offend one of your fellow citizens?"

"I don't have the personnel to bird-dog the steps of every potential troublemaker, and I don't have to, either. All I need to do is stay on the grapevine and I'll hear if you've annoyed anyone besides Sergeant Gonzales."

"So much for the rivalry between the different branches of law enforcement," Castle winced a little.

"We sometimes come to a truce if our interests overlap," Pamela Keller said with an enigmatic smile. "Is it true that you promised Julia Gordon to write a mystery novel for young adults?"

"She asked me if I would, and I told her that I don't think I'd be good at it."

"Why so modest, Mr. Castle?"

"Because I got my formal education at a series of boarding schools, which severely limits the number of settings I could write about with confidence, and I just don't see myself doing something along the line of 'Prep School Confidential'."

"If it's any consolation, I can't see that, either. But I know the next rumor about to start – famous author on apple diet."

Castle eyed the goods in his trunk.

"I might have gone a little overboard with this," he concurred. "But with all the varieties on offer, it is hard to restrict yourself to two or three varieties."

"To me it looks like you bought a box of each."

"Absolutely not! Just nine."

"I stand corrected. They have a dozen different kinds, don't they?"

"Thirteen, and I was going to stop at eight, but then there was the Northern Spy. I had to have it for the name alone."

"So you're leaving for the Big Apple tonight?"

"Tomorrow morning. I'm meeting Ms. Millard this evening to discuss the results of my investigation. If you're interested, I'll ask her to let me send you a copy of my report."

"Should I be interested?"

"Not necessarily. It is possible that another person was involved, but is it probable? Frankly, I don't know, and I don't have any further leads to pursue here in Yaote."

"No stone left unturned, eh?"

"I literally turned some over. Which makes me think that I should take some photographs to illustrate certain aspects of my conclusions."

"You still have some hours of daylight. You won't return to Yaote, I guess."

"Oh, you'll never know. Maybe we'll meet again a year from now right where we stand, or you'll walk into The Family Room one day to find my wife and me sitting at the table next to your favorite one."

"I'll keep my eyes peeled. Drive safe."

As Castle left the Bench Peak Orchard's parking lot, he could see the Sheriff in the rear-view mirror, looking his way, apparently deep in thought.

"Done and won!" Esposito punched the print button with a flourish. "First round's on you, pal."

"Unfair," Ryan countered. "I had more to write, since it was me who arrested the guy."

"And I had to go through the rest of the house."

Esposito's phone saved Ryan from having to come up with a suitable reply.

"Who?" his partner asked. "Oh, yeah, sure. Send him up."

He turned to Ryan.

"Guess who's decided to talk to us all of a sudden."

"Spit it out, I've no idea."

"Spoilsport. Justin Cunningham."

"David Millard's boyfriend? What does he want?"

"Ask him yourself, there he is."

A rangy man in his late twenties or early thirties was shown to their desks. He wore his dark hair in a pony-tail and sported a soul patch. His right ear, eyebrow, and nostril were adorned with silver studs, and he had a silver ring piercing his upper lip at the right corner of his mouth, which gave his face a slightly lopsided look. His black cargo pants, off-white sweater, and black leather jacket hung loosely on his frame, as if he'd lost weight not too long ago, though neither Ryan nor Esposito were ready to bet that it wasn't a fashion statement.

"I got your messages," Cunningham said after introductions were made. "Sorry for not getting back to you sooner, but I was … out of touch for a while."

"Traveling?" Esposito asked politely.

"In a way, yes, to Arizona. Silver Sands Recovery, a rehab center in Prescott. I only came back this morning."

"You were there because of your problems with cocaine?"

"You can call it what it is – my dependence on drugs and alcohol. And of course I was there because of it. Drugs and booze killed the man I loved, that's a really big wake-up call, and I heard it. From what I've gathered, David's death is exactly what you want to talk about. Why?"

"His mother asked us to make sure he wasn't killed by a human being, not drugs," Ryan answered. "And we're especially interested in identifying two women who David had dealings with."

He got out the composites Rhonda Millard had given them.

"Do you know them?"

Cunningham studied the pictures carefully.

"Yes," he finally said.

"And?" Esposito prompted.

"And what?"

"What are their names? How do you know them? Are they dealers?"

"Not really. They're not doing it for profit, and only when asked to."

"They're the middlemen, then? Or rather, middlewomen."

"More like a delivery service."

"Ah, like pizza taxis," Esposito looked at Ryan. "Do you want to explain to Mr. Cunningham the difference between a pizza and illegal drugs?"

"I believe he already knows. But he might not be quite clear about the following. Mr. Cunningham, whether someone sells drugs once or once every five minutes doesn't matter. Whether they make profit or lose money doesn't matter. If they sell illegal drugs, they're drug dealers, nothing less."

"Look, they might not be close friends, but acquaintances at least. What do you want with them anyway? They weren't even there when David died."

Esposito face grew serious.

"Justin, a minute ago you told us that drugs led to David's death. You took steps to get clean because of what happened, because you loved David. Now ask yourself one question: if it hadn't been that easy for David to get cocaine, as easy as ordering pizza, wouldn't there be a at least a small chance he'd be alive today?"

Cunningham put his face into his hands and started to cry.

"I really loved him," he sobbed. "I wish I'd wised up sooner and made us go into rehab together. Why did he have to die instead of breaking his bones? It might have gotten him to think. And if only I hadn't been so damn childish after we argued that night, I might have been there and stopped him from riding this damned horse through that damned course. But instead of acting like a grown-up, I sniffed another line and fell into a bottle of vodka."

"Hey, it wasn't your fault," Ryan told him and patted his shoulder. "David was supposed to be a grown-up, too. It was an accident, a really bad accident. You need to accept that if you want to stay clean."

"I know, but it hurts so much. And I have no idea what to do with my life now David's gone."

Esposito silently handed him a couple of tissues. Cunningham blew his nose, sat up a little straighter, and pointed to the composites.

"Brittany and Taylor Alexander," he said. "They're sisters. I've got their phone numbers' somewhere."

"You indicated that they don't deal professionally," Esposito wrote down the names. "How do you know that?"

"Their parents are very big in Silicon Valley, they could paper their villa with Ben Franklins without knowing the difference."

"The name Alexander doesn't ring a bell," Ryan remarked. "Someone that rich should have made it into the news – and the tabloids."

"Maybe you've heard of the company, Lanike."

"I only know Nike," Esposito quipped.

"Well, I know it exists, but that's about it," Ryan admitted.

"And that's probably the way the family likes it," Cunningham explained. "They're one step away from being recluses, the parents at least. Tay and Brit practically grew up in isolation because their parents feared they could be abducted. That has turned them into thrill seekers, and their current fad is delivering … dealing coke."

"How did they manage to escape from the golden cage?"

"No idea. Years of begging, I imagine. And they agreed to a couple of bodyguards. One of them always accompanies the girls, sometimes both."

"They obviously keep the parents in the dark about their daughters' hobby," Esposito stated.

Cunningham shrugged.

"It took the girls less than two months to find their weak spots. One likes coke, the other fancies himself the next Elvis, so he has his own band and gets gigs now and then. He ain't half bad, even has some real groupies."

"Did the Alexander sisters have a reason to harm David?"

"I can't think of any. He always paid, and as I said, they're not in it for the money."

"No disputes with anybody at all?"

"Just with me. I'd be the prime suspect if David had been murdered – I was close to him, at the party, and we had an argument."

"What about?" Ryan asked.

The Interstate stretched enticingly clear in front of the Ferrari, and it took Kate real effort to resist the temptation and keep to the speed limit. If the car's purr was any indication, it was contend with the leisurely speed of sixty-five mph.

Her cell's ringing shook Kate out of her fantasy of pushing the needle to one-hundred and more. She took the call without checking the caller ID.

"Beckett, it's Esposito."

"Hey, Espo. If this is about Adam O'Brien, take it to Dean. I'm off duty."

"No, listen. Justin Cunningham, David's boyfriend, came in and he told us something you should know about."

He related Cunningham's account of his disagreement with David at the party and what they made of it.

"The problem is, when I called the guy to set up an interview, I was told that he'd already left," Ryan came on the line. "Destination: Yaote."

"If he runs into Castle, he might get nervous and overreact," Esposito said. "And your husband's phone is going straight to voicemail."

"He probably switched it off because he's meeting with the Congresswoman," Kate replied, trying to stay calm.

"He isn't. I thought of that and tried her phone, too. According to her assistant, who took the call, she's still in Albany."

"Then he most likely fell asleep in his room at the B&B. Have you tried reaching him there?"

"Yes, and he must sleep like sextuplets not to have woken up."

"Try to locate Castle's phone. I'm twenty minutes away from Yaote. What's the number of the Sheriff's office?"

"Sheriff Keller, this is Captain Katharine Beckett from the NYPD."

"NYPD? What can I do for you? Ah, yes, you're Mr. Castle's wife."

"Yes, and it's possible that he's in danger."

"How so?"

Kate summarized what Ryan and Esposito had found out.

"I met your husband this afternoon, and from what he said I gathered that he was heading for the Millard's place. I'm on my way back from Bethany – I'll meet you there in about fifteen minutes."

"Thank you, Sheriff. I owe you."

"Only if it's a false alarm."

Castle swept his gaze over the obstacle course. To him it looked like he'd put everything back where it belonged. The sound of steps alerted him to the man approaching from the direction of the house.

"Hello, I'm Richard Castle," he introduced himself. You must be John, David's broth… whoa, that's a little excessive, don't you think? I'm not trespassing, your mother gave me permission to look around. I'm the PI she hired. Didn't she tell you?"

"Shut up," John Millard said, keeping the gun pointed at Castle's chest. "I need to think what to do with you."

The realization hit Castle like a horse's kick.

"It wasn't an accident," he stated the now obvious. "You killed your brother."

"As if you didn't know already," Millard replied impatiently. "You told my mother on the phone that you'd found out."

"All I said was that it could have been murder, and if so, how it was done," Castle protested. "Not that it matters now."

'Keep talking,' he told himself. 'Get him to talk. Play for time. Maybe his mother will be early.'

"What happened between you?" he asked. "I heard that you were very close when you were younger."

"We drifted apart," John answered a little absentmindedly, probably busy deciding how to proceed with the situation. "He was living in sin and wouldn't even try to lead a God-fearing life."

"And you ... ahm … struck him down for his sins?" Castle tried to sound as if this was a reasonable concept.

"What? No, I distanced myself from him, but my heart and my church were always open to him if he chose to seek forgiveness and try to overcome the sickness of his mind and body. Keep your arms up."

"Sorry. You obviously found a way to deal with David's … difficulties. Why not keep it that way?"

"Do you think I wanted to kill him? Everything had gone well for some time, but David, well, his mind was more warped than I thought, and then he went and crossed a line."

'Don't get impatient,' Castle instructed himself, 'the longer he babbles, the better for you.'

"What did he do?"

"You must have heard that he liked to play practical jokes."

Castle nodded.

"The Wednesday before it happened, my fiancée and her mother went to Albany to look for a wedding gown. She didn't tell me about it because they were to meet my mother in the afternoon to plan a surprise party for me. I'd been ordained as a deacon three weeks before. My mother, for what reason I have no idea, told David about it, even where my fiancée planned to go shopping. He decided to grow a beard, and then he and his 'friend' went to one of the shops, pretending to be customers. When they saw my fiancée, they made a show of embracing, and even kissing each other, and upon 'realizing' they'd been caught out, acted horrified and ran out."

"Your fiancée thought you were cheating on her."

"With a man! You can't even begin to believe how devastated she was. It took me three days to convince her of the truth."

"She didn't realize it was David after the shock had worn off?"

"They'd never met, and I hadn't told her how much we resembled each other. And she didn't know of his illness."

John had the grace to look embarrassed.

"I should have been open with her from the start, but she's so innocent and pure, I hadn't found a way to tell her about it."

Castle felt like throwing up from saccharine overload.

"How did you know he was having a party here in Yaote?"

"When my fiancée and her parents finally understood the situation, I called David to reprimand him. He was drunk or worse, and he said he was celebrating his 'masterpiece', his 'prank of all pranks', in a suitable manner at our family home."

"That was nasty," Castle murmured, meaning it.

"He couldn't stop laughing, so I hung up on him, but I couldn't forget his words and the triumph in his voice. To him, it was just a game, not for a second did he think about the soul he'd tarnished. I couldn't sleep that night, and at one point I just got into my car and drove down from my fiancée's parents' place in Piseco. When I arrived, David was right over there, next to the stable, with Mercury. When he saw me, he was surprised but happy. He didn't even have a bad conscience. I demanded an apology, to me, to my fiancée, to her parents, and to my mother for disgracing our family. His answer was to mock my belief in God, and to call me a coward and a hypocrite for keeping him a secret. I was so angry that I didn't watch my step and slipped on a horse bun, falling down. David started to laugh like a madman, and the next moment I had this stone in my hand and hit him with it. He was already dead when I bent down to check if he was hurt."

"You exchanged the bloody stone with a similar one next to the oxer," Castle said. "You dragged or carried David over and placed him with his head on the stone, and had Mercury obliterate your footprints and the drag marks. Did you lead him to your neighbors' field or did he find his way there by himself."

"I took him as far as the little ditch at our property line, it wasn't necessary to do more. You see, I didn't want David to lie there in the open, and I thought the Lawsons would find him when they came over to complain."

"How could you get back to Piseco without being noticed?"

"Not many people around on the smaller roads early Sunday morning."

"And your fiancée hadn't noticed your absence? She must sleep very deeply."

"We are not married yet, Mr. Castle. I slept in the guest house, of course. How dare you insinuate ..."

"I apologize, I wasn't thinking," Castle interrupted him hastily. He had indeed been distracted by the sight of his wife and Sheriff Keller advancing stealthily down the lawn.

"Hand me your phone," John ordered in a suddenly very decisive manner. Oddly enough, telling his story seemed to have boosted his confidence.

"My phone?" Castle echoed, trying to stall him. "What for?"

"I'm going to call your wife, pretending to be a nurse from the hospital in Bateauscreek. You were found next to your car, unconscious, now you're in a coma. I'll tell her to charter a plane, because you haven't much time left, and meet her at Yaote Brook Airport. Then I'll drive the two of you to a secluded place and arrange a murder/suicide scenario. Sounds good, doesn't it? Well, probably not to you."

Kate and the Sheriff advanced slowly, but were still too far away to act.

"As I writer I commend your creativity," Castle kept his eyes fixed on John's face, and raised his voice ever so slightly to mask any sounds coming from the two women. "But as a part of God's creation, I have to ask you how you can justify killing two innocent people in cold blood. It is not too late, John. David's death happened in a moment of anger, and God will forgive you if repent. Your congregation believes in you, they know that you're a good man, they look up to you. Do you really want to destroy their trust, to lose everything dear to you? Is that really you?"

"He's right, John," Pamela Keller had veered slightly to the side and appeared at John's right, gun holstered, arms slightly raised. Kate kept behind John, her service pistol trained on his head.

"That's not the John Millard I know," Keller went on. "The teenager who helped younger kids with their school-work. The young man taking care of his mother after his father's death. The man finding solace in God at the darkest moments of his life. The man whose mother told me felt transformed by his love for a wonderful young woman, who shares his belief in a loving and all-forgiving God. Put the gun down, John, it's not the Lord's plan for you to become a murderer."

John Millard looked at the gun in his hand as if seeing it for the first time in his life. He turned it away from Castle until the barrel was pointed at himself. For a moment the world seemed to wobble on its axis, then John let the gun drop to the ground, went down on his knees, and began to pray.

Shortly after midnight, Kate and Castle left the Sheriff's office, tired from repeating their statements over and over again, too wired to even think about sleep.

"Let's walk to the Darby Inn," Castle suggested. "The cars are safe in the Sheriff's parking lot."

"I'll go back and tell them," Kate answered. "Otherwise they'll start a search and rescue mission."

A minute later they walked through deserted streets, holding hands. Kate was the first to break the silence.

"Kind of a déjà vu," she said. "Fortunately without the actual shooting."

"Yes, John was more griper than sniper."

Kate elbowed him in the ribs.

"There are parallels to our shooting," he admitted. "Not least that we didn't suspect the bad guy until it was almost too late. But I can see as many differences as similarities. It didn't happen in our home, where we expected to be safe. Sheriff Keller was there, having our backs. The enemy wasn't a stone-cold killer, working for a shadowy organization, but one desperate man. Shall I go on?"

"Since you're offering …"

"Alright, but I'm back to the parallels because the most important thing is one. We're still here. And in the end, that's all that matters, don't you think?"

"Yes, you're right. But I would like us to be here without getting shot or threatened with a deadly weapon in the future."

"Me too, Kate, me too."

Martha and Alexis welcomed them home the following afternoon with a boatload of questions and the promise of spicy baked monkfish for dinner. Martha excused herself from dinner and, to the couple's unspoken relief, its preparation, to meet with a potential Maecenas for her theater, but was more than ready to hear about their 'hoofy adventure', as she put it.

"Did you really call yourself 'a part of God's creation'?" she asked.

"Having a gun pointed at you can be inspiring," her son answered modestly.

"Darling, you could have made it on the stage - thanks to my genes, of course."

"Do you think John would have gone through with his plan to kill both of you?" Alexis wanted to know. "His brother's death was manslaughter, but that would be murder, and it seems like a big step from one to the other."

"I honestly can't say," Castle replied. "It's the old saw of never knowing what a person is capable of under the right – or wrong - circumstances."

"I'm in two minds about it," Kate said. "Did he give up because he really hasn't got it in him to kill someone in cold blood, or just because it was over anyway?"

"He would have done it," Martha opined. "By killing his brother and trying to get away with it, he'd already crossed a line. And he had a plan, a very elaborate one."

"Elaborate, yes, but not thought through at all. For example, he couldn't be sure I'd come alone. He was desperate and looking for a way out – any way out."

"Aren't desperate people the most dangerous?"

"I don't think so because they are emotionally involved. That gives you a chance to talk them out of their plans."

"If they haven't already gone over the edge," Alexis qualified.

"Well, yes, sometimes it's too late."

"John was definitely not cut out for committing calculated murder," Castle put in. "Otherwise he would have shot me on the spot instead of confessing."

"Which brings me to another point I don't get," Alexis said. "If he really was so deeply religious, how could he justify killing David before himself?"

"He probably convinced himself he'd done God's work, and that David was possessed by Satan," Martha remarked.

"Or, a little less dramatic, he told himself it was an accident, and that he could repent by doing God's less murderous work," Castle offered.

"Like watching over the purity of his soon-to-be ex-fiancée's soul."

"Maybe she'll stand by him because she believes that he was right to purge David's 'illness'," Kate suggested.

"You're such a romantic," her husband commented straight-facedly.

"She might stand by him, but her parents won't," Martha prophesized. "They'll tell themselves and anybody else, that they're protecting their daughter, though in truth it's more about the family's honor than the girl."

"I think they would be protecting her as well," Castle replied. "Otherwise they'll spend the rest of their lives praying that her daughter doesn't do anything to provoke John."

"But it should be the fiancée's decision," Alexis stated. "Speaking of protective parents, have you already arrested the dealing sisters?"

"Justin Cunningham's statement alone isn't enough to get a warrant, and they don't live in my precinct anyway. I talked to the Captain of the Nineteenth and we decided to turn the case over to Narcotics. Let them deal with it, they've got the necessary manpower. And what's best, I've got some chips to call in some day."

"If what Cunningham says about the girls' upbringing is true, Narcotics might decide they're not worth much of an effort. Any lawyer who isn't brain-dead will get them off by likening them to prisoners with PTSD. And that might actually be not too far from the truth."

"I fully intent to keep an eye on the case. These girls may be small fish, but someone has to get them off the street, even if it's into a fancy private psychiatric clinic. Who knows what they'll do when the thrill of dealing drugs wears off? Maybe they'll decide to try their hands at contract killing."

"Or holding up delicatessens," Martha added. "Congratulations on that arrest, by the way. According to the Ledger, it was a spectacular maneuver, with you playing a prominent part in it."

"Really?" Castle asked. "You didn't tell me about it."

"There wasn't time to."

"Now there is."

"Oops, is it really that late?" Martha exclaimed with a look at her watch-less wrist. "I really need to be off."

"And I need to hit the books before I start dinner," Alexis murmured and hastily followed her grandmother's suit by making herself scarce.

"So?" Castle's face was dark.

"As to the spectacular part - we used fireworks as a diversionary tactic," Kate explained offhandedly. "The rest was routine stuff."

"Not with a captain having an active part in it."

"I was at the scene because it is an important case," Kate said.

"I know. It is important because the muggers were extremely and unnecessarily violent."

"Yes. Our problem was that O'Brien wasn't alone in the house he was hiding in, and we had to act fast to avoid a hostage situation. I was the best person to get the job done, so I did it. I wore my vest, and Espo and Ryan were with me."

"You should have been at your desk, delegating."

"You should have been at your desk, writing. Nobody pointed a gun at me yesterday. It was you whose life was threatened."

"The situation was completely different. You knowingly went after a dangerous criminal, while in my case nobody believed a murder even happened."

"And it still turned out the way it did. My point is that we can only avoid moments like these if we stop doing what we love and what we're good at. To me, it would feel like giving up, letting the bad guys win. And to quote someone in this room: 'We're still here, and in the end, that's all that matters'."

"I'd never thought that one would come back to bite me in the ass," Castle said resignedly. "I admit that you're right, but it may take me a while 'til I stop freaking out a little when you pull a stunt like that."

"I can live with that. Truth be told, I felt a strong desire to hit you after John gave up yesterday."

"Thank you for not giving in to it. Your prowess at self-defense has certain side effects."

"Congresswoman Millard will give a public statement," Alexis announced after dinner had been savored and the cook lauded. "It's set to start in a few minutes. Want to see it?"

"Yes, I think it would be a fitting conclusion to the case. Kate?"

"By all means."

A little later Rhonda Millard faced the public in a dark blue costume, her jewelry as unobtrusive as her make-up was discreet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have informed the Speaker of the New York State Assembly and the members of the National Committee of my immediate resignation from my position as member of the Assembly and asked my name to be removed from the list of candidates for the upcoming election," she said in a firm voice, staring straight into the cameras. "As you will hear in the next few days, charges have been brought against my son John, and I want to concentrate all my strength on helping him to defend himself against the accusations leveled at him. I furthermore believe this step to be necessary in order to avoid even the slightest suspicion of political influence regarding John's present situation. I apologize to my constituents, but in moments like these I feel that my first duty is to my family. I thank you for your trust in me. It was a pleasure to be your advocate here in Albany. Thank you."

She turned around and walked away, not seeming to hear the questions shouted at her by the members of the press.

"Did I miss something, or did she really not once insist on John's innocence?" Castle asked.

"He confessed in the presence of two law enforcement officers and a civilian," Kate replied. "That will become public knowledge sooner or later, and she would look ridiculous insisting on him not being guilty."

"Only if he pleads guilty," Alexis pointed out. "If I were John's lawyer, I'd say you and the Sheriff were too far away to hear everything. Apart from that, the confession is not admissible under the Miranda law."

"Good thing you're not a lawyer yet," her father said.

"As long as you don't need one before I pass the bar. But I have to say, I'm really glad not to be in Ms. Millard's place. Imagine finding out that one of your kids killed the other. I bet she wished she hadn't asked you to look into David's death."

"I'm sure she does," Castle agreed. "Right now. But I believe that deep down every parent wants to know the truth about their child, whatever it is. I even venture so far as to say that most of them at least subconsciously know if something life-changing has happened."

"You think Rhonda Millard suspected John to be David's murderer?" Kate was skeptical.

"Would she have insisted on an investigation based on a fifteen years old tale about hoofprints and the visit of two women not even close to David when he died, if she hadn't felt something to be way off? I'd say she'd picked up on John's sense of guilt, without realizing it."

"Whatever the reason, the result is the same. One son is a killer, and the other turned out to have a streak of cruelty in him under the surface of the harmless, funny prankster. Espo was really cast down after he heard Cunningham's account of what they did to John's fiancée, because he'd started to like David after what his neighbors at the Holland told him. One could argue that his brother's behavior drove him to it, but he had other means to make his point."

"It's all so sad and unnecessary," Alexis remarked. "If John had told his fiancée the truth about David, none of it would have happened. I don't understand why he didn't, whether his Church calls it a sin or not. His mother, who seems to be really conservative, didn't mind David being gay, or did she?"

"Well, I'm speculating here, but I guess she tolerated rather than accepted it," her father answered. "My feeling is that they didn't speak about it in the family, or to anyone else. Ever."

"Making it easier for John to accept his church's doctrine," Kate added.

"Let's hope it didn't come to all this misery because there wasn't enough love and trust within the family to be open with each other." Castle got up. "If you'll excuse me, but since I'm definitely not going to write a YA novel, the least I can do is write Julia Gordon a letter, thanking her for her help. After all, she was the one to translate Mercury's message."

"I'm off to bed, then," Kate announced, yawning. "See you there, babe."

She kissed Alexis on the cheek.

"Thank you for dinner, it was great."

"Yes, sweetie, same here," Castle nodded. Picking an apple from an enormous bowl he ambled over to his office.

The knocking at his door came less than a minute later.

"Do you have time to talk, Dad?"

After about an hour, Castle walked into the bedroom and found his wife reading.

"She told you?" she asked, laying her book aside.

"Yes. As we thought, she and Hayley have been together for almost two months."

"Did you tell her that you – we – already suspected?"

"She realized when I didn't act surprised, and was a little miffed about it at first, pointing out that we could have spared her, quote, weeks of turmoil, unquote. But she eventually came round to our point of view that confronting her with our assumptions before she was ready to tell us would have had its own pitfalls."

"Sounds like it went very well."

"I think so. I told her that I love her, and the only thing I care about the person she loves is that it's a good person, be that a man or woman, Chinese or American, twenty or sixty years old. Hopefully I didn't lie about the last thing – or, even better, never have to find out whether I did or not. And I let her know that everything I said is true for you, too, and that you care a lot about her."

"Good."

"She asked me to tell you that the feeling is mutual, and though she gave me permission to repeat to you everything she said, she'd prefer to talk to you herself at some time in the next few days. But first she wants to tell Mother. That prospect makes her a little nervous."

"Why is that? Martha is one of the most liberal-minded women I know, and she surely has a number of gay friends and colleagues."

"And she is a drama queen. Alexis doesn't expect criticism, only emotional overload."

"Martha is going to surprise her, I bet."

"I've given up on predicting my mother's responses to anything a long time ago."

His gaze fell on the book Kate had been reading.

"'The Pure and the Impure'? Is that a reaction to the present situation or a hint that I should rush through my evening ablutions?"

"You once insinuated that witnessing you being a good dad would draw me to you – which certainly wasn't true then. Nowadays though ..."

Castle made a beeline for the bathroom.

"I expect you back here in five minutes," Kate called after him.

He made it back in four.


End file.
